harbors of my own
by WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: Emma Swan doesn't fall in love like most people do. No, it's almost as if she's going through the five stages of grief. [Captain Swan and mama!Snow]


_Disclaimer: I own nothing but my thoughts and words._

_Title from the lyrics to 'Stray Italian Greyhound' by Vienna Teng._

* * *

_**harbors of my own**_

_Stage One: Denial_

It's only sex.

After all 'only sex' is what Emma Swan does best; a string of one night stands to keep away the relentless bite of winter in Boston, a game of perpetual make believe to pass the lonely Tallahassee nights.

It's 'only sex' because that makes it easier to crawl over Killian - even as his hand skims across his ribcage - and stoop to collect her clothing before she's even quite regained her breath.

"Where're you off to?"

"Home," she says, the weight of the word strange in her mouth. "Henry will worry."

"Mm," Killian hums, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn't do much to stop her from stepping into her underwear and pulling her blouse over her head; instead, he watches her, arms folded behind his head - tired contentment lining his posture. She isn't sure what that stirs within her, but she finds it hard to meet his eyes.

"And my parents," she adds - as if she needs further support for her argument - buttoning her jeans and sitting back on the edge of the bed to tug on her boots.

"Aye," he agrees, laughing lightly. He sits up, pulling aside her hair to press his lips to the curve of her neck. "I'm sure they're worried sick; between feeding and changing the new little prince and not getting nearly enough sleep."

"They're awake," she agrees pointedly, ignoring the tug of longing his touch sends through her. "Which means they know I'm not home. Which means-"

"They know you're off cavorting with a devastatingly handsome pirate."

She casts him a mock-glare, but doesn't resist as he leans in for a kiss. She thinks perhaps he's trying to persuade her to stay - kissing her in hopes that it will lead to the proverbial 'round two' - but in the end, the kiss is just a kiss, and he smiles when he pulls away.

"I have to go," she says quietly. "I'll see you-"

His smile sharpens to a grin. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she agrees, then inwardly reminds herself that it's for sex.

Only sex.

Nothing else.

.

Emma creeps inside, feeling all too much like a teenager who's snuck out past curfew, and closes the door quietly behind her. Sneaking around is an artform, after all, that she's mastered over years of being both a thief and a bailbondswoman. And, as far as she can tell from the storybook, it's a bit of a family trait.

This thought is confirmed by the sound of Mary Margaret clearing her throat from the sofa, just as Emma's beginning to make her way up the stairs.

"Fun night?"

Emma is grateful for the relative darkness that envelops the apartment as she hesitates on the third step up to the loft; not that she's blushing - Emma Swan does _not_ blush - but that she's sure she looks like the cat that ate the canary. "Waiting up for me?" she says, hoping to divert the conversation.

"Maybe," her mother teases. "Or maybe your little brother was hungry."

Certain she isn't getting out of giving _some _sort of explanation, Emma pauses to kick off her boots before padding across to the sofa, tucking her legs beneath herself as she settles in beside Mary Margaret. "Not even a week old and he's already busting me."

Mary Margaret grins. "Pretty soon you're going to be squabbling in the backseat, pinching each other and pulling on each other's hair."

"Hah," Emma snorts, then tilts her head to lean against her mother's shoulder, watching as her little brother begins to drift off mid-suckle.

"So how's Hook?"

Emma blinks. "Hook? Whoever said I was with Hook?"

"The hickey gave it away," Mary Margaret says gently (and okay, maybe every now and then Emma Swan _does_ blush). "And besides, I'm not blind."

"It's just sex."

She can hear the knowing smile in her mother's voice. "That's not what I asked."

"It's nothing serious."

"If you say so."

"It's not."

"Okay."

It's nothing serious, she repeats, this time to herself. Just fun. Just sex. Nothing serious about that at all.

.

"Killian."

"Hi, love," he says, standing outside her door when it's barely noon.

"What - what are you doing here?"

"Last night you said-"

Her eyes widen at that. "I didn't mean-"

"Emma? Who's at the door?" It's her father; and while she's far from a frightened teenager worrying over the consequences of bringing a boy home, Killian's presence _here_, in her _home_, with her _family_ is making it a lot harder to believe that there's nothing _real_ going on between them. David thumps down the stairs, where he and Henry have been busy preparing to convert her old room into a nursery. "Hook," he says, not sounding entirely surprised - but not entirely displeased either - and shakes Killian's hand. "Come by to help with the renovations? We could always use an extra pair of hands."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't offer a _pair_," Killian deadpans, "but I know how to pull my weight."

They laugh, and David claps Killian on the back before leading him upstairs, and Emma just watches helplessly, unsure of what just happened. Helping her parents with their nursery is _definitely_ outside of 'just sex' territory.

And when Mary Margaret emerges from the bathroom, Neal clean and swaddled in her arms, Emma doesn't even give her the chance to comment.

"Shut up," she says, and her mother laughs.

.

_Stage Two: Anger_

"What are you doing?" Emma groans, tugging at her rat's nest of blond curls as she pads barefoot into the kitchen.

"What does it look like?" Killian replies happily, hovering over the stove.

"It looks like Captain Hook is making pancakes in my kitchen," she murmurs, still blinking away last night's sleep, and - moreover - assuring herself that she isn't dreaming. Killian had never struck her as the domestic type, and something about the picture still doesn't quite fit. "Shirtless," she adds, as if this makes any difference.

"Then it's exactly what it looks like," he says, then wrinkles his nose as the smell of burning pancakes fills the apartment and he mutters a stream of curses and something about her father. He flips the burnt food into the trash and turns to start afresh. "Though I'm afraid I'm failing spectacularly."

Emma elects not to pursue the topic of Killian's lessons in both cooking and modern appliances, feeling that's a can of worms she's less than ready to deal with. Instead, she plops onto a stool, leans her elbows against the counter and puts her face in her hands, gazing at him through her fingers with barely concealed irritation. "You're still here."

"I am."

"You normally leave," she says, wondering if she's being too vague.

"I didn't know I _had_ to?" he frowns, turning to look at her.

"I never said you did, but-"

"What's the problem then?"

"It's- But you-" she stammers, her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment and anger. "You _always_ leave."

He blinks. "I'm still failing to see the problem, love."

So is she, for that matter, but something about his presence makes her just plain _angry_. Not quite hitting-and-breaking-bones angry, but rather sit-and-seethe-and-wait-for-him-to-notice angry; the type of quiet anger where she'd give him the silent treatment if she didn't think it would be wholly ineffective on him. It's childish and degrading, but it rises within her before she can squash it.

"You always leave," she says again, levelly. "And you're still here."

She stares at him and he stares back, and she can almost see the wheels turning in his head, can almost hear the gears grinding against one another as he comes up empty-handed again and again. He stares and she stares, until the newly-started pancakes begin to burn as well, and then he's cursing - _"Bollocks!"_ - and waving the smoke clear as he tries to dispose of his second failed attempt of the morning.

"You're still here, and you're burning down my kitchen," she says, giving up on making a point and jumping on the smallest excuse to kick him out. She drops down from the stool and pushes him out of the kitchen, cleaning the mess herself. "Get dressed and get out before you take the whole building down with you."

"Sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Just go."

In reality, it's nothing a few squirts of 409 and some open windows won't fix, but she fusses over the kitchen regardless, passing time as he slips back into the rest of his clothes.

"What about tonight?" he asks, emerging from the bedroom in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt that looks like he could have swiped it from her father's closet. "Do you still want to-"

"Yes," she groans. "Now _go._"

.

"Another toaster? Really?"

Emma looks up from where she's (ineffectively) prying at the inside of her brand new toaster with a table knife, hard rock blaring from the radio, to find her mother letting herself in. Neal is miraculously still fast asleep, nestled in the folds of a long strip of fabric looped and wrapped around Mary Margaret's body an impossible number of times. Even so, Emma turns off the music with a sigh and two over-enthusiastic smacks on the face of the radio.

"I told your father we should have gotten you a toaster _oven_ instead," says Mary Margaret, dropping onto a stool at the counter. "Don't think you have a _history_ with those."

"Very funny."

"So what gives? We could hear you banging around all the way upstairs."

One of the few _dis_advantages to moving into the apartment below her parents - on the rare occasion she'd prefer to mutilate her kitchen appliances in private, she's forced to endure parental prying and rational advice.

She resumes her work - less violently this time, and more focused on removing the knife that's now lodged in the guts of the toaster - while pointedly avoiding direct eye contact. "Killian stayed the night last night."

Mary Margaret raises her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Emma grumbles, then grunts as she pulls on the knife. "_'Oh?'_"

"I don't know. I'm still trying to tie Hook staying the night to appliance abuse. I thought you taught him how to use the toaster."

"Dad did, I think," Emma corrects off-handedly. "He didn't break it. He just _stayed the night._" She emphasizes the last words as she hoists herself up, putting her weight into the seemingly now permanent combination of toaster-and-knife.

Mary Margaret frowns. "I … think I'm missing something."

Emma sighs, finally giving up, and slumps down on a stool beside her mother. Her arms are almost immediately full of baby, who blinks at her twice before retreating once more into sleep. It calms her, the way the weight of her little brother in her arms fills her to the brim with a special mixture of awe and protectiveness.

"I thought things with you and Hook - _Killian_ - were going well," Mary Margaret says, though it's more of a question, as she inspects the mess that is the toaster.

"They were," Emma says. "They are."

"So … ?"

"So?"

"Emma honey, I know I've got 'mommy brain' but I still don't see the problem."

"He _stayed. the. night._"

"Ah," Mary Margaret says, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. "I see."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing!"

"_Mom_-"

"Hah!" Mary Margaret huffs triumphantly, holding the table knife aloft - free of the toaster - and thereby successfully diverting the conversation. "Got it!"

.

_Stage Three: Bargaining_

Killian is surprisingly earnest when it comes to their ... _whatever_-this-is. Behind those devilish smiles and quirked eyebrows, there's an intense conviction, a steadfast intent to do whatever-this-is _right_ and measured care not to scare her off. That last part comes as a bit of an annoyance - she doesn't take kindly to being likened to a skittish woodland creature - but all in all, the whole package is kind of endearing. She sets the pace, makes the rules; he follows them (more or less).

Not to be so hypocritical as to compare_ him _to something large-eyed and furry, but it's a bit like having a puppy.

Except puppies don't ask for explanations.

"You just can't," she says firmly when he asks for the fifth time tonight why he can't stay for dinner. And it isn't as if he's arguing against her, insisting he _should_ stay, but rather intent on deducing exactly _why_ he _can't_.

"No, you don't _want_ me to," he rebutts, even as he works at the buttons on his shirt, getting ready to leave. "Just like I don't _want_ to stomach another night of Granny's lasagna. But I _can _and I _will_."

"Fine then," she concedes, busy making her bed - something she only seems to do when someone else has recently slept (or not-slept) in it. "I don't _want_ you to."

"Finally!" he exclaims with faux exasperation. "Some progress. So why don't you _want_ me to stay?"

"I already have plans," she says, rolling her eyes. She isn't in the mood to keep up with this back-and-forth, not when it isn't serving as some sort of twisted emotional foreplay because she really _does_ have somewhere to be. "We - Henry and I - we already have plans."

"You could have just said that, you know," he replies, almost gently, and when she dares to meet his gaze, he's offering her a warm smile.

"That's it?" she asks, when the moment stretches on and he still doesn't say anything.

"What do you mean?"

"That's it? You're not going to ask who my plans are with? Or what we're doing or-"

He cuts her off with a kiss, his hand warm against her cheek. "No," he says as he pulls away, retrieving his hook from the dresser and locking it into place. "I'm not."

She feels the pressure ease off, feels some of the weight lift from her shoulders and she brushes it off, tilting her head and deadpanning, "Really. That's where the interrogation ends."

"Mhm."

"Not that I'm complaining."

"Of course you aren't."

"But you don't care who I'm seeing," she says, measuring her inflection so it doesn't come out as a question.

He makes his way to the front door of her apartment, his shirt still only half-buttoned (as usual, she thinks), and she follows. "Not particularly, no."

"Well, then - good."

"Good?"

"Good."

He kisses her goodbye without further argument, sweeping his thumb over her cheek and his tongue against her lips. And while he doesn't show any signs of hurt or resentment when he kisses her again - once, twice, three times as he smiles against her, promising, "Until tomorrow, love," - she feels a little thrum of guilt stirring within her.

"Tomorrow," she agrees, and she forces a smile.

.

"You know," says Mary Margaret, scrubbing at a plate caked with spaghetti, "Killian can come to family dinners. There's plenty of room."

Emma pauses in drying the plate she's holding, having not expected something so straight-forward, and instantly envies Henry. The boys are caught up in a cutthroat game of Mario Kart - Henry and David are, at least; Neal is sleeping peacefully in his swing just a few feet away - and she's regretting having let them both out of clean-up duty. Right now, she'd rather contend with the relationship-shattering rifts that blue shells can cause than have _this_ particular conversation with her mother.

"I know."

Mary Margaret frowns, handing her another freshly washed dish before trying again. "We'd really like to get to know him better," she says, then adds quickly, "not that you need our permission or approval or anything."

By 'get to know him better' she means of course 'as your boyfriend'. David and Killian are _mates_ after all (though the thought of their blossoming 'bromance' makes Emma cringe a little just thinking about it). "I know."

"Oh," her mother says dumbly. "I guess- okay, then."

They continue in silence, working at cleaning, drying and putting away the dishes from the night's meal, and Emma reminds herself things are better this way. This is _her_ time with her family, and it wouldn't be fair to _anyone_ to let someone else into their bubble. She's making the right choice. She's being the adult in this situation.

"Emma-"

"It's better this way," she blurts, even before her mother can finish her thought.

"Better what way?" Mary Margaret frowns.

"Better if we keep things - separate," Emma says, brow furrowed in concentration. Now that it's out in the open ... well, maybe talking about her reasoning will validate it. "Boundaries. He gets one part of my life. You guys and Henry get the rest. No overlap; no-one gets hurt when things go south."

"Emma-"

"It's better this way," Emma insists, not quite sure who she's trying to convince.

.

_Stage Four: Depression_

Emma hears the front door click open, and she knows it's her mother without even needing to look up. Of all the people who come and go from this apartment - and the sheer number is almost frightening when she bothers to think about it - there are only two who don't knock: Henry, who never sounds any quieter than a herd of elephants as he drops his backpack and shoes at the front door and inevitably sprints to the kitchen for a snack; and Mary Margaret, who moves with the quiet grace of both a hunter - careful not to startle her prey - and a mother - who is doubly careful not to disturb a rare moment of peace.

But still, she doesn't do anything to acknowledge Mary Margaret's presence; nothing other than change the channel on the television from depressing soap opera to over-enthusiastic infomercial.

"Emma?"

She grunts this time, but doesn't move.

Mary Margaret rounds the couch, and out of the corner of her eye, Emma sees that for the first time in months her mother isn't wearing any sort of contraption with which to tote around her baby brother. "Emma." It isn't harsh, but firmer than the time before, and Mary Margaret perches herself on the edge of the couch before taking the remote and turning the TV off altogether.

"What is this? Some sort of intervention?"

"I was just dropping in to say hi." Her mother really is a terrible liar.

"It's my day off," Emma replies pointedly. "I'm allowed to watch soap operas in my pajamas."

"I never said you weren't."

"Mmf," Emma grunts, casting her mother a skeptical look.

"So, do you want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about," Emma insists, pulling her quilt up to her chin.

"Mm, that's not the story I hear," says Mary Margaret. She's quiet for a moment, before patting Emma's leg. "C'mon."

Emma groans - in the way she imagines most teenage girls whine when their mothers are setting up for a heart-to-heart, but unlike those same teenage girls, she's actually grateful for her mom's interest in her life (even if she'd been perfectly content to drown her sorrows in bad daytime television) - and sits up with feigned effort. "What did you hear?"

"That you were moping and feeling sorry for yourself."

She can't really argue with that description of her current state.

"What _happened_?"

"Nothing," Emma says cryptically.

"Well, obviously _something_ must have happened. You're not exactly the type to mope and feel sorry for yourself-"

Emma cuts her off, "I told you, it's my day off."

"Hm," Mary Margaret hums. "Not buying it. Still not you. So I repeat - _what happened_?"

"_Nothing_," Emma repeats emphatically.

"Then I'm missing something here," says Mary Margaret, giving Emma that _Look_ that only moms know how to give. "Care to elaborate?"

Emma is quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the threadbare quilt on her lap, feathering the fraying edge of one of the patches between her fingers. "Nothing happened," she says quietly. "_That's_ the problem."

"I'm still not following."

Emma meets her mother's eyes hesitantly. "What happened four days ago?"

"Your brother turned three months old?" Mary Margaret ventures after a slight pause, and Emma nods, hoping that her mother will be able to connect the dots without her, that she won't have to say it out loud. They're both quiet for a moment, and then Mary Margaret gasps softly. "Which means last night makes three months since you and Hook-"

Emma grimaces; a pained smile.

"And nothing happened."

"Nothing," Emma confirms.

"You mean he - forgot?"

Emma lets out a little snort of laughter. "No, no. Nothing like - that."

"Then what happened?"

"_Nothing_," Emma says for what feels like the thousandth time today. "Nothing happened. We're just the same today as we were yesterday and the day before and the day before that."

Mary Margaret smiles sympathetically. "And this is a … bad thing?"

"Yes - no." Emma winces. "Kind of?"

"You're not used to things working out," Mary Margaret says softly.

"I don't know how to do this," Emma admits quietly, shamefully, not quite sure why this feels like the greatest failure she could have possibly laid at her mother's feet. Maybe it's her track record - of the last three men she's loved, two have died painfully and the other … well, she'd rather not think about that. Or maybe it's the True Love thing, that she's got some impossible standard to meet when it comes to these things, and of all the people in the world she's chosen _Captain fucking Hook_.

"Do what?" Mary Margaret asks with a fond smile. "A relationship? Neither do I. There isn't exactly a manual - a right and wrong way to do things. You just have to - fight for what you want, for what you love. Don't take 'no' for an answer. That's what your father and I do every single day."

Leave it to her mother to make something like love seem so simple and so terrifying all at once. "And what if it doesn't work out?" she asks, trying not to sound as small as she feels.

Mary Margaret's smile broadens, and she reaches out to tuck a lock of Emma's hair behind her ear. "Then your father and I will still be here. And so will Henry, and Neal. You won't be alone, Emma. I promise. But do you really want to spend the rest of your life regretting having not tried at all?"

Emma thinks of Graham - safe, kind, _perfect_ Graham - and how things might have been different - how she might be different - if she'd just given him a chance. "Thanks, Mom," she murmurs, leaning in for a tight hug. "I know you're not Killian's biggest fan-"

"Wait," Mary Margaret frowns, cutting her off and pulling back. "Whoever said I don't like Killian?"

"Oh, come on," Emma drones. "Everyone knows you were definitely on _Team Neal_."

"You really think it's that simple?" Mary Margaret asks seriously. "The only _team_ I've ever been on - the only _team_ I'll _ever_ be on - is _Team Emma_."

.

_Stage Five: Acceptance_

"Are you sure about this, Swan?"

Emma grins, feeling a peculiar mixture of both smug and nervous. "What's this? The famous Captain Hook afraid of meeting a girl's parents?"

"I know your parents, love," he reminds her cheekily, runs his hand through his hair and gives her a look. "I'd be a fool _not_ to be afraid."

He's got a point, of course, given the sheer number of times her father has punched him in the face, and the countless reminders he's been given of her mother's deadly aim. So maybe he _should_ be afraid of them and maybe she likes that he is.

He interrupts her thoughts, his hand on her arm. "But that's not what I asked. I can just leave. Like always."

Emma smiles, feeling a rush of longing to realize that he isn't nervous for his own sake, but for hers. "No," she says. "Stay."

.

She isn't quite sure what she expected, but it isn't _this_.

They don't make a big deal out of it, even though everyone - Henry included - knows it is. Even little Neal probably feels the weight of the occasion, in some small way. But her family continues with Thursday night dinner as if Killian had always been a regular participant.

They're barely through the door when Mary Margaret breathes a sigh of relief, mentioning something about the sauce burning and depositing Neal in Killian's arms to tend to it. His eyes widen, shifting the baby in his arms, careful of his hook. He isn't exactly a natural with the infant, but he smiles broadly, and she can't help but grin in return.

It's natural. Easy.

He fits in well enough - maybe because _nobody_ in her family really fits in, and he just brings a new brand of crazy to the table - even managing to dodge clean-up duty with her father and Henry, hmm-ing and haw-ing over swords and guns in the bedroom. (Later, Killian will defend himself - 'male bonding!' - as she casts him a glare and resists punching him in the bicep.)

"So … that went well," Mary Margaret mentions casually - it's her turn to dry.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mhm."

"And by that, I mean we don't need to talk about it."

"I never said we did," Mary Margaret says, turning to put a stack of bowls in the cupboard. "I was just pointing out that … well, no bloodshed."

"None at all," Emma agrees. "Surprisingly."

"I know," her mother teases. "I was expecting at least one casualty."

"Yeah," Emma agrees again, though her focus drifts to the bedroom where her father is demonstrating the perfect balance of his sword against Killian's (what on _earth_ is it about the men in her life and their insistence on carrying their swords everywhere?) and she catches his gaze. He isn't miserable - something she hadn't realized she was worried about until just now - in fact, he smiles and sends a wink her direction.

She only realizes she's smiling back (and probably in a way that resembles Mary Margaret's days as a lovesick schoolteacher) when her mother nudges her in the ribs, teasing, "Not under our roof," and Emma feels her cheeks flush red.

.

"I suppose that's my queue to take my leave," Killian says - an edge of disappointment to his voice - as the door to Henry's room closes. It's been her policy since the beginning that they don't 'set sail' - a term that makes him groan and whine at his own drunken foolishness - if Henry isn't staying the night with his grandparents or at Regina's. "Thank you, though. Tonight was - thank you."

She draws in a deep breath, her eyes meeting his. "Thanks. I know my family-"

"Is fine," he says seriously, cutting her off. "They're fine. Lovely, even."

"I- okay," she stammers, unsure of how to respond to that; unsure of where they go from here.

"Swan-" he begins, then winces as if maybe that's too formal now. "Emma-"

He doesn't get any further, though, because she leans up to kiss him then - not because she feels she should, or that it's the _right_ thing to do, but because she _wants_ to. "Stay," she says, barely more than a whisper but decidedly not a question.

"But Henry-"

She kisses him again, this time to shut him up. "I know," she says, still so close her eyes can't quite focus on him. Now or never, she thinks; take the plunge. "I know, but I want you to stay. And I don't want you to leave in the morning. Not right away. I want you to _stay_."

"Yeah?" he breathes, tilting his head to lean against hers.

"And I want you to burn pancakes in my kitchen. Just don't - don't touch the toaster. Don't ask."

"I can do that," he says softly, laughter rumbling in his chest.

"And I want to fight for this - even if it doesn't work out in the end," she says, feeling her whole body tremble with conviction. "I want to try."

"I can do that, love," he whispers.

"Me too," she replies, a promise to them both - because there isn't a 'right' or 'wrong' way, only the gut-wrenching decision to give it a shot. "Me too."


End file.
